Back in the day, when sweat was currency, the steel mill was home. Every shift, we’d clank together, a symphony of iron and grease. Men who’d laugh, cry, bleed, and grow old side by side. But time waits for none, especially not us blue collars.
Then, those damn robots arrived, taking jobs right from under us. They didn’t understand camaraderie, couldn’t share a flask after the whistle blew. Now, all that’s left are ghosts, echoes of what once was.
But I won’t mourn too long. We had good runs, and I’ve got plenty of yarns to spin. Like the night O’Malley swallowed a wrench, or how Jimmy once wrestled a runaway coil. Memories, they say, are the true riches of a man.
Nowadays, I watch the sun set over the rusted skeletons, wondering what might’ve been. Yet, I take solace in knowing that, despite the winds of change, our brotherhood endures. Just ask the boys on the ham bands, we’re still connected, even if the furnaces lie cold.
>Soulkyn